Seveneves

by Neal Stephenson

  The funnel-and-strap contraption was for collecting urine. She stepped into it, pulled it up over her pubic mound, and cinched the straps high over her pelvic crest. A short tube dangled from it, tickling her inner thigh.

  She then picked up the gray fabric thing. This was a one-piece bodysuit whose only opening was at the neck. It was a mesh of nearly microscopic nats—simple three-legged robots that knew how to do very little other than hold hands with their neighbors. It would have been impossible to put on were it not for the fact that the nats, talking to each other in a simple language, could stretch and shrink those connections according to a shared program. She got both of her hands into the neck hole and pulled opposite ways. Recognizing the gesture, the nats relaxed, and the opening widened to the point where she could insert one foot, then the other. This required good balance, which Kath Two was fortunate enough to have. She was standing on a towel that she had spread out on the ground. The classic error was to lose one’s balance and plant a foot in the dirt, or even fall down, and get covered with dirt and rocks and twigs that would stick to the Space Grease. But Kath Two got her feet into the suit without incident. Finding the leg holes, and then the individual toe holes, was, as usual, slapstick comedy. Once she got the suit pulled up over her buttocks she was able to sit down and manage this one digit at a time. Then she reached down inside the still-baggy thighs and connected the urine tube to a fitting on the inside of her right thigh. Recognizing as much, the fabric drew tight, nearly trapping her hands inside. The tightness moved up in a wave from toes to knees to thighs to buttocks, pausing once it had noticed her waist. She shrugged the suit’s upper half on over her shoulders and got her fingers sorted into the gloves that terminated its arms. The suit, sensing what she was up to, grew tighter as she went, save at the neck.

  From the helmet’s orifice she detached a rigid collar with a hinge on one side and a latch on the other. She snapped it into place around her neck, then pulled the loose fabric of the suit up over it and held it in place as it shrank, forming a tight connection to the collar.

  From the hard collar down to her toes, she was now clad in gray material that fit her so closely she could see tendons in the backs of her hands, nipples reacting to the early morning chill, and the little valleys where her nails erupted from their beds.

  She hesitated to lower the helmet over her face. This would be her last opportunity for a while to breathe the fresh air of New Earth. The scientist in her was at odds with a deeper layer, common to all human races, that wanted to see beauty and purpose in the “natural” world. She knew perfectly well what Doc—or just about any other Ivyn—would say to her, if he could read her mind. The water in that lake below you is there because we crashed comet cores into the dead Earth until it stayed wet. The air you’re breathing was manufactured by organisms we genetically engineered and sprayed all over the wet planet, then killed once they had accomplished their task. And the sharp scent you like so much comes from vegetation that, for many years, existed only as a string of binary digits stored on a thumb drive on a string around the neck of your Eve.

  None of which changed the fact that she liked it. But the breeze was building, making the craft jostle and fidget. It was trimmed for minimum lift and unlikely to go anywhere, but a sudden gust might still carry it away.

  Unnerved by a sudden movement, Kath Two reached out and slapped the upper surface of the right wing, about an arm’s length in from the tip.

  Kath Two felt her own touch. A patch of skin on the back of her right forearm, a finger’s length in from the wrist, thrilled as the suit’s fabric contracted over it: a configuration of puckers no larger than a fingerprint. But shaped, unmistakably, like a miniature hand—Moira’s hand. Her skin and that of the glider had become joined in a common sensorium, mediated by the smart fabric of the suit.

  It never got old. She slid her hand out toward the tip of the wing and watched with a little grin as the hand-shaped disturbance in her suit moved out toward her wrist. She lifted her hand from the wing and the pucker vanished.

  She dropped the helmet over her head and got it seated in the collar. Other than a padded brow band to support the weight of her head, and a sparse geodesic array of miniature speakers, the helmet was just a transparent bubble, mercifully free of heads-up displays and other clutter.

  In the fuselage that joined the wings was a nest barely large enough to accommodate her. She straddled the nose, lifted one knee, and nestled it into a padded and insulated gutter that would support it and her shin. Then she followed suit with the other leg. She was kneeling in the cockpit now. Resting loose on the belly pad in front of her was a parachute folded up into a slim backpack. She picked this up, slung it over her back, and tightened the straps around her waist and thighs. She leaned forward and took her weight on her arms, then did a reverse push-up, settling onto her belly.

  Then she made connections: the pee tube to a system that would drain it. Drinking water at her collar. She didn’t yet need the tubes for incoming and outgoing atmosphere, but she connected them anyway, as well as a power cable.

  Then she reached back behind her, all the way down to her ankles, and found the handle for the zipper. She had no idea why it was called that. It was a linear closure, consisting of more dumb, specialized nats, that sealed her body inside the fuselage, snug under many layers of crinkly insulation. As she pulled it up she felt the glider’s flexible top clamp around her buttocks and cleave together up the length of her spine until it had closed around the collar of her suit. Only her head-bubble was now exposed. It had become the glider’s nose cone.

  She extended her arms then to the sides like a bird spreading its wings, sliding them into insulated tunnels where they rested comfortably on inflated supports. For a moment she thought that some little stones had somehow made their way onboard and gotten trapped under her arms. Then one of them shifted a little, and she realized that this was the suit again, sensing the pressure of a rock on the underside of the wing and mirroring it.

  The insulation also helped to deaden sound, and so she could now hear almost nothing from outside.

  Which didn’t mean she couldn’t hear anything. She could hear the wind. A phrase that didn’t really do justice to the soundscape now being rendered by the array of miniature speakers. “The canid smelled the forest” was a completely different sentence from “The man smelled the forest,” not because the words had different meanings, but because the canid’s olfactory apparatus was infinitely superior to that of the man. In a loosely analogous way, the real-time, three-dimensional sonic portrait of the wind generated by the glider’s onboard systems and rendered by the helmet’s speakers was as far beyond what she could sense with unaided ears as the canid’s scenting of the forest was beyond the man’s. For the vehicle had lidars pointed in all directions, looking out into the air to a range of several hundred meters and seeing its myriad currents, shears, and vortices. To convey all of that information in sound was impossible, but what came through was more than enough to tell Kath Two where she wanted to go: namely, where the energy was. And right now the symphony of tones, whooshes, crackles, and rustlings told her that her intuition yestereve had been more or less correct. The wind climbed the slope from the lake in a fairly continuous sheet, but as it molded itself over the brow of the hill, the wind higher up, on the outside track, had to go faster in order to keep up with the ground layer. There was a gradient in speed between the wind aloft and that at the ground. She could use it.

  Her eyes were busy too, tracking a pair of birds flying parallel to the slope, dipping in and out of the shear in the wind, sipping power. Far above them, the clouds were telling her a story about the conditions she’d be facing in a few minutes’ time, but this was no concern of hers now.

  The wind gusted. The feeling of pressure beneath her arms increased and at the same time she felt the entire craft rising. She moved her feet and her hands in a way that the suit recognized and transmitted to the glider’s control surfaces. Just
that quickly, it was configured for lift. Biting suddenly into the wind coming up the hill, the craft sprang into the air; she could feel the knots of pressure vanish as the ground lost contact with the wings. Then the only sensations on the skin of her arms were caused by the wings reading the currents of air flowing over them. She let herself rise high enough to buy some margin of error, then dropped the nose and glided down the hill, trading altitude for velocity. The game she’d be playing for the rest of the day was to build up a fund of energy by stealing it from the atmosphere. At the end she would trade it all for altitude, and spiral up to a place where the atmosphere failed.

  Closer to the shore of the lake, the meadow gave way to trees. This was one of the more mature forests on New Earth. It had been seeded only a few years after the First Treaty, about a hundred years ago. She pulled the nose up, skimmed over the highest branches, then dropped again until she was gliding over the blue water of the lake: the melted core of a comet, still coming alive with seeded algae and fish. With a voice command she caused the glider to drop a tube, no thicker than her finger, into the water skimming by a few meters below. On her first pass across the lake’s diameter she collected twenty kilograms of water, which slowed the glider down somewhat. She found a thermal on the other side and rode it up a few hundred meters before rolling over and diving down for another, faster pass over the lake, and another long drink of water. This part of the journey was the most ticklish, so it was good that it came first, when she was still fresh. A glider that was light enough to carry around on her back was, by the same token, too light to store very much kinetic energy. Its lack of momentum placed limits on the maneuvers Kath Two could perform in the higher atmosphere; small twitches in the flow of air would bat it around like a feather. It needed to get a lot heavier. The way to do that was to scoop water out of a lake, as she was doing now. But it all happened at low altitude and low speed, where the margin for error was slender. The first few passes, when the glider weighed practically nothing, were the most delicate. So she took her time at each side of the lake to find good thermals and harvest their force. After an hour of that, however, she was dive-bombing her way across the crater with terrific authority, carrying hundreds of kilograms of ballast in the belly and the wings. By then she had learned where to hunt for thermals that, as the morning wore on, bloomed with increasing vigor from the open meadows in the shoulders of the great crater.

  It was on her last pass, just as she was getting ready to pull up and skim over the tops of the trees that grew from the onrushing shore, that she saw the human.

  The human was not exposed on the shore, but standing back among the first line of trees, apparently watching her. He or she—the distance was too great to read gender—was dressed in clothing that blended in with the surroundings. Not the bright coveralls of Survey. But neither did it look military. Perhaps sensing that he or she had been spotted, the human immediately stepped back into the young forest. At the same moment, Kath Two was obliged to pull her nose up, lest she collide with the trees. So great had been her surprise that she almost did it too late, and felt a few thin branches whipping against the belly of the fuselage as she put the lake behind her for good.

  Directly ahead was a broad meadow, angled toward the sun, that she knew to be an excellent source of power. As she drew close enough for the lidars to read the air, and for her eyes to pick out the movements of the birds, she banked into the thermal. Her first approach was a crude guess based on what she was hearing, but as soon as she got into it and felt the fine-grained currents of the air in her arms and her fingertips, she was able to use it as birds did.

  Half an hour’s climbing left the lake a blue disk far below and put her in sight of open country to the southeast, dotted with mushroom-cap clouds that were a dead giveaway. Trading altitude for distance, she glided in a nearly straight line until she could pick up those thermals and recharge her store of energy. She had her eye on a range of mountains several hundred kilometers distant, rising up above the eastern shore of the Pacific Ocean. Above them, clouds were arranged in long folds, running parallel to the crest of the range.

  The photocells in the wings had stored up enough power now that she was able to send a burst of data up into space. Packets coming back a few seconds later told her when and where she could expect hangers along her projected route. It was too early to lock in on a specific plan, but useful to get a general picture. And it was good practice to let people know where she was and when to expect her.

  It looked like about twenty other surveyors were operating in the same general zone. She considered the number astonishingly high, and double-checked it. While she was waiting for confirmation to come back, she scanned the skies around her and spotted two of them.

  After some thought, she sent a voice message to Doc. “I want to talk to you when I get back. Not urgent. But important.”

  Then she put such distractions out of her mind and attended to the problem at hand, which was stringing together enough thermals to get her into the mountain wave that awaited her downrange. Once she had stored enough energy in her glider—mostly in the form of altitude—the thermal-riding part of it became nearly automatic and she was able to doze off for stretches of twenty minutes at a time.

  In truth, there was no aspect of this flight that could not have been managed by a robot. Robot gliders were at this moment operating all over New Earth. But she was leery of letting her own powers dwindle by delegating them to machines, and so she liked to fly the glider at least part of the time. The algorithms worked, but they wouldn’t get better unless humans gardened them; and to do that, you had to fly.

  A surge of acceleration awakened her from an early afternoon nap and she looked down to see the snow-covered peaks of the mountains a thousand meters below her. She had found the mountain wave, a source of sustained atmospheric power that dwarfed anything that could be obtained from thermals. It was a ridge of rising air running from north to south. If she turned north from here, she could probably ride it all the way to the polar vortex, and take that up to where the atmosphere failed. But she had farther to go than wings could take her, so she banked south and trimmed the glider to slip sideways along the wave, skimming enough power from it to gain altitude even while screaming southward at three hundred kilometers an hour. She was a fly hitching a ride on a hurricane.

  Knots in the tapestry of sound told her of other solid objects above and below, left and right. She was able to pick them out visually as the setting sun lit up their fuselages and wingtips against the deep purple of the sky.

  Higher yet—unfathomably far above, and yet only in “low” Earth orbit—were larger structures, moving more slowly, like the minute hands of great clocks. Linear constellations with fatter, brighter lights on their ends. One of them was sweeping across the sky directly south of her, and she knew she was already too late to catch it. But looking off to the west she saw another approaching, like a giant leg striding across the sky, its foot swinging downward, not yet planted. She didn’t even need to check the params to know that this was the hanger for her. But she ran the calculation anyway, partly to confirm her guess and partly as a courtesy to other aircraft in this crowded space that might be aiming for the same one.

  Darkness fell before she reached it. The hanger—it was a pun on “hangar,” a term from Old Earth aviation—was a big hollow pod hanging on the end of a tether that, just now, extended far up into space. At its opposite end, thousands of kilometers above, was another hanger just like it, serving as a counterweight. The two hangers formed a bolo, rotating around each other to keep the tether stretched tight between them. The bolo orbited the Earth just like any other satellite, the difference being that the height of that orbit, and the length of the tether, had been tuned so that on every rotation—or, as it appeared from Kath Two’s point of view, each long stride across the heavens—the hanger on the low end would swing down into the uppermost reaches of the atmosphere and seem to hover, almost still, for a minute. Somewhat an
alogous to the way that a runner’s foot will remain planted on the ground, unmoving, for an instant during each stride, even though the runner is traveling swiftly. In any case it came low enough and went slowly enough that a glider, pumped to great velocity and brought high into the atmosphere by the power of the mountain wave, could catch it and match it.

  Kath Two’s eyes and ears told her of other vehicles converging on the same target. A few minutes prior to rendezvous, it became obligatory to hand control of the craft over to a version of the ancient program Parambulator, which managed the final approach. Kath Two could have stuck the landing without assistance, had she been alone. But coordinating her approach with the other vehicles was the sort of task best left up to a five-thousand-year-old algorithm.

  At the time she ceded control, the hanger still seemed impossibly far away, but over the next few minutes it loomed out of the sky like a slow-motion meteorite, studded with red running lights. It was shaped like a rugby ball, streamlined fore and aft, with stubby winglets that were finding traction in the thin air, adjusting their angles of attack to stabilize its flight. Kath Two and the other aircraft were converging on it from behind, overtaking it rapidly as it slowed almost to a stop.

  Most of the hanger’s aft end was a broad aperture that now irised open to reveal a spacious deck, brightly illuminated, like a magic doorway hanging in the sky. In front of her she could see the lights of other vehicles sidling into the queue ahead of her.